“Shit,” Whitmore says. “So what's the plan?”
“Gonna think a bit differently,” Mosshart says. “We bring the genny and the wire. We hook up points of contact instead of a fence. Shave the rubber off the cables and you’ve got a lotta juice looking to go somewhere. Anything touches raw wire gets cooked. A cattle prod the size of the hall. Or doorway.”
Miller says, “That’s pretty dangerous. A fence we can see and stay away from. This?"
“So then stay the fuck away from the cables when we flip the switch. The hell. You a child puts his hand on the stove?”
* * *
Doc watches em drag all the equipment inside. “No fence?”
Miller says, “Old boy here wants to turn the building into a giant Taser.”
“That’s about right,” Mosshart says. “How are we gonna let the pilots know? And when are they gonna be back from their tour? Don’t want to fry one of the good guys.”
Gordy says, “I’ll take care of it.”
Mosshart says, “What? You gonna think real hard at em?”
“Sorta.”
* * *
“Sorta” is more like “exactly.”
Gordy walks to the front windows of the airport office building. He can see the pilots bounding at the other end of the runway. Blue specks about a hundred yards away.
He scratches the side of his head and wonders if this’ll actually work. But as with everything else recently: Fuck it.
He thinks, Bugs, we gotta talk to you.
He watches as one of the dots turns in the air and pirouettes down to the ground. It changes direction. Sprints toward the office building.
Bugs’ cracked, deep voice fills Gordy’s head, On way.
Gordy worries that his thoughts are no longer his own. He worries he’ll be forever broadcasting to the pilots. Or to the other monstrous enemies—since doesn’t it stand to reason that the pilots would command telepathically if they communicate that way?
Command if the warmachines still had their neural harnesses on, anyway.
Now the things are doing what they were designed for: Killing.
* * *
Mosshart runs the idea by Bugs while the other pilots continue their patrol and the sun sets. The pilot agrees with it. Says, “We stay outside. Until sun up. Watch area.”
“I’m thinkin it’s mostly cuz they don’t wanna get zapped by Mosshart’s death machine,” Whitmore says. He glances at the bare wires Gordy’s stringing up in the doorways. The stripped copper turns the entrances and the windows into fanged mouths.
When they flip the genny on, anything that tries to pass those will be consumed by an arc of electricity.
The only room that isn’t getting hooked up is New Dogtown. Can’t risk one of the huskies getting turned into a hush puppy.
* * *
The pilots leap in the evening dusk.
Gordy hears em tell each other to take refuge on top of the massive garage.
One will take a few hours to sleep while the other two hold watch.
Then they’ll switch off.
They’re a little worried about the charges for their palm weapons. Half-empty, all of em.
Bugs says it’ll be all right. They can recharge at the generator.
The three pilots settle in atop the garage. Daffy takes his turn resting. Wile E. and Bugs stand guard.
Gordy finds himself wishing he was with em.
Doc taps Gordy on the shoulder. “We good?”
“Fine,” Gordy says. Eyes still on the aliens. “Just listening in.”
“So then how are they doin?” Doc nods toward the pilots.
“Worried about their blasters or whatever. But they can use our genny to recharge em.”
“And they haven’t seen anything?”
“Nope. Area seems clear.”
“What about the ship.”
“That... That they’re worried about.”
* * *
At full dark, Mosshart turns the generator on. It makes a tremendous racket.
The raw cables spark and sizzle.
* * *
Mags slumbers on the couch near the dogs in the back room. She’s still exhausted. Wounded. She doesn’t dream. Thanks to sleeping pills Doc gave her.
The huskies stir.
They growl at the air vent near the couch.
Something awful wriggles inside.
They yip at it as it scuttles across the ground. Lunge for it. But it jumps. Dodges them. It dives under the couch. The dogs don’t recognize it as a threat... It’s just so little. And weird.
* * *
Mags feels a prick at the base of her neck. Then she feels nothing. She watches her hands and legs move without her consent.
* * *
Doc sits with the other men while they busy themselves in the darkness. They don’t wanna use the generator for the lights. All its power is directed to the electrocution cables.
Doc drinks and rubs Rubin’s ears. They both watch the night outside. Waiting and assuming terrible shit will come rumbling across the runway.
Miller, Whitmore, Swift, and Fiske play cards next to a Coleman lantern.
Gordy talks with Mosshart. Gordy tries to explain the pilots to him. Their methods and their reasoning. Near as he can tell, anyway.
Doc doesn’t really care. He sips his beer. Lights a cigarette. He wants to go home. Or somewhere. Wants that ranch with all the pups. A good woman. Maybe something in Colorado or Montana. Way the hell away from everyone.
Rubin’s hair stands on end. The husky turns his snout toward New Dogtown. Growls. Barks. Charges down the hallway.
Doc shoots a sharp glance at Miller.
Miller and Whitmore jump to their feet, weapons ready.
Doc holds his hand up to Swift, Fiske, Gordy and Mosshart. “You guys stay here. Watch the door.”
The men nod and get their guns.
Doc walks behind Rubin. He holds his Colt up.
He doesn’t feel a real sense of panic till one of the dogs lets out a howl cut short by a wet whimper. “Winston,” he mutters. He tries the door to New Dogtown. It’s locked. He backs up. Kicks it once. The doorjamb splinters. Doesn’t quite open.
Miller stands at Doc’s side. He times his kick with Doc and the door bursts open.
Whitmore trains his flashlight on the chaos.
Mags stands at the center of the room. Amidst a flurry of fur and gnashing teeth. Blood and exposed bone. But it’s not Mags anymore. It’s a twisted sculpture of mangled flesh and limbs. A mass of feelers whips around where her jaw used to be. Her two arms are now four chitinous insectoid pincers. Her legs are a melted mound of tissue lined by teeth.
She holds the desiccated form of Winston in one of her pincers. A tube pulls blood from the poor canine into her growing mound of once-human skin. And the Mags-thing pumps something dark yellow into Winston.
The other dogs circle the Mags-thing. Trying to keep their distance. They’re terrified, having seen what the beast has done to Winston.
Doc looks into Mags’ eyes. They’re untouched by the change. She’s still human there. Her eyes are aware of what’s happening. Her mind.
Doc raises the Colt. He aims for Winston. Ends the dog’s pain and dies a little inside himself. He turns the M1911 on Mags. Her brow furrows as her pincers drop the corpse of Winston. A tear rolls down her cheek.
Doc puts a bullet through her forehead.
The light goes out behind Mags’ eyes. The back of her head explodes. It lolls limp to one side. Awkward and dead.
But the abomination doesn’t stop. It rushes forward. Ignores the dogs. Ignores em even as they bury their teeth in the monster and chew on it. No. The abomination rushes toward the bigger threat: The men.
Miller and Whitmore open fire with their M4s. They push it deeper into the room with machinegun fire. The bullets drill holes into the Mags-thing. Troughs that fill quick with dark blood.
The Mags-thing screams.
Doc holsters his Colt
and runs out to grab Mosshart. He shouts to the veteran logger, “Get the goddamn shovel. And Swift, bring up the chainsaw.”
“Reloading,” Whitmore yells. He drops his magazine and slams home another.
Miller echoes him and mimics him.
At this point, neither soldier is actually trying to kill the freak. They’re just trying to keep it from getting outta the room. And avoid hitting the dogs.
The window shatters behind the Mags-thing. Bugs reaches inside. Sends a blue shockwave through the creature. A field that holds it in place. The pilot can’t use his death ray for fear of killing the men and the dogs. But at least it can keep the monster immobilized.
“Move, move,” Mosshart shouts.
Miller, Whitmore and Doc clear the way.
Mosshart enters the room.
The dogs back up against the walls.
Mosshart readies the snow shovel. He’s affixed an electrified cable to each side of the wide blade, which are tied to the generator.
“Do it,” Doc says. “Cook this thing.”
Bugs releases his energy field so that Mosshart can attack.
Mosshart plunges the pronged shovel into the Mags-thing.
The generator in the other room chugs as power drains from it. Blue stitches of lighting spark across the monster’s pulsing skin. It sizzles and cooks. It screams and convulses.
Mosshart fights to keep the electricity pumping into it.
The Mags-thing’s chest opens. Rib cage like an open mouth. Two tendrils whip forward from it. They slice across Mosshart’s chest. His neck.
The veteran gasps. He stumbles off to the side. Drops the shovel. The Mags-thing starts to move again.
Doc and Whitmore put more bullets into it.
Bugs ducks to dodge the gunfire.
Miller leaps to the side. He grabs the electrocution device. Shoves the blade into the Mags-thing’s open chest cavity. A fresh burst of electricity blooms.
The creature screams again. Tries to whip its deadly tendrils at Miller, but can’t. It doesn’t have enough life left in it.
Miller pushes the shovel blade deeper and deeper into the creature.
It burns. An acrid, rotten stench fills the room. The thing smokes and finally dies.
A torrent of blood and gore leak from it onto the floor.
“Turn the genny off,” Miller shouts.
Mosshart coughs. Once. Hard. A bubble of blood pops in his mouth. Rivulets of life fall freely from the gaping wound in his neck.
Then he does not move.
Swift tries to stem the flow of blood with his hands. He tries to check for a pulse.
Whitmore plays his flashlight across the bubbling mess. “Jesus Christ.” He glances up at Doc. “What the hell happened here?”
Doc says nothing.
Bugs slinks his slender form through the broken window. For a moment, he’s a blue spider, sneaking around. Those creepy long arms and limbs. He stands hunched behind the wretched mass that used to be Mags. He reaches down and grips something along her spine. The pilot struggles with it. Strains. Pulls it free.
He holds it up in the flashlight beams.
A two-foot long centipede writhes in his hand. It looks like a smaller version of the burrowers. Its split worm face mewls.
Bugs says, “Can take over bodies.” He tilts his disc-head toward the baby burrower. “Injects neural material. It is how they control other creatures. Rays. And even the Hroza.”
Miller drops the shovel. Shouts, “You made these things. Why would you ever think that this kind of shit was a good idea?”
“They are—” Bugs looks for the right word. “Effective.” He crushes the baby burrower with a sickening crunch. Yellow ichor pitter patters to the floor from between his long fingers.
“Military thinkin at its finest,” Doc says. He takes a knee next to the body of Winston. He caresses the husky’s head. “Glad the aliens are getting better with English.”
“You do not know. What we fight. Horrors done to our people. You do not know the... You do not know what we try to stop. The Hroza. Corrupted. They destroy. Consume everything. The parasite the Hroza carries.”
Doc picks up Winston’s warm body. He cradles the husky. Says, “That’s a fine sentiment when you ain’t the collateral damage.” He walks out the door. The dogs follow him to another unused room where they can stay.
Whitmore and Miller scramble to Mosshart’s unmoving form.
Whitmore begins chest compressions. He tries to manually pump the old man’s heart.
It’s a useless gesture.
Swift stares at his old friend. Then he glares at the pilot. “You did this.”
35.
Gordy opens the front door. Pops a flare. Winds up. Hurls it out onto the runway.
Dark shapes scatter. They run away from the intense red glow. Crimson shadows and obscene figures. The warmachines chitter and chatter.
Gordy and Fiske watch a line of burrowers and spider-squids trundle across the landing strip. The burrowers command the front line of nightmares. They make noises and the spiders adjust their attack. Behind it all, the flytraps plod.
Fiske thinks, Managed to stay alive just long enough to die a different, horrible death.
Gordy thinks, We’re in trouble here.
There’re two hushed thuds outside. Daffy and Wile E. land in front of the door. They step in. They point to the raw cables along the doorway and window. They point to the blasters in their palms. Daffy says, “Charge. Now.”
Fiske blinks once in surprise. He yanks the wires from the window.
Gordy tears the wires from the door.
They hand the raw copper over.
Daffy and Wile E. work at a fever pitch to secure the cables to their hand blasters.
Wile E. points to the generator. “Make on. Electricity.”
Gordy runs to it and yanks the pull chain. And yanks the pull chain again. Till the motor catches. Rumbles to life.
Wile E. and Daffy lock hands. The yellow orbs at the center of their disc heads begin to glow.
Fiske and Gordy step back.
Doc, Swift, Whitmore and Miller cover their eyes when they walk into the main room.
Bugs joins his compatriots.
All three glow together.
They turn to face the coming onslaught across the airstrip.
Swift and the men raise their weapons.
The pilots unleash a wave of electric death from their palms.
It blows out the window and wood of the front wall. Sweeps across the landing field. The red of the flare is overcome by blue. The stream from the linked aliens disintegrates the front line of spider-squids. Their forms shatter and crumble into dust. The beam cuts farther into the attacking horde, destroying the arms and torsos and faces of the burrowers behind. The flytraps beyond pop from heat before the ray even touches them.
The pilots’ palm weapons stutter. Die. So does the generator.
The pilots themselves collapse. They fall to the floor, exhausted.
Bugs stares up at Doc.
Doc says reaches his hand out to Bugs. Swift offers his own. The pilot leader hoists himself up with the help of the two men from Sugar Tits.
Gordy and Fiske get Daffy and Wile E. back on their feet.
Whitmore turns his flashlight to the darkness. Looks out over the smoking wall. Across the blighted landscape. He sees dozens of burnt husks. They break apart when the wind hits them.
All those monsters. Dust in the wind.
Whitmore slings his M4. “Now we just gotta wait for reinforcements.”
Miller nods. Grabs a beer. Lights a cigarette.
Gordy does the same.
The huskies bark.
The floor explodes underneath Daffy. The alien tries to leap, but the burrower’s worm face splits and takes hold of his legs. Its pincer arms coil around him and punch into his light blue skin.
The pilot’s shark mouth opens. He unleashes a howl so horrible and wretched that Fiske’s eyes wate
r.
Whitmore, Miller and Doc open fire.
Doc hollers to Gordy and Fiske, “Get the goddamn generator running.” He wants em to power up the electrocution shovel. He says to Bugs: “Why don’t you fry it?”
Bugs points to his palm weapon. “Overloaded. Need time to repair after wave blast.”
Gordy keeps pulling the generator’s starter cord. Fruitlessly.
Doc drops an empty mag from his Colt. He doesn’t want to, but shouts to Fiske, “Go get the dogs.”
“No. Move aside,” Swift says. He revs Ackerman’s Stihl. He thinks, Fuck this thing. He drives the rotating teeth into the tough chitinous side of the monster. It rips out chunks of the beast’s scaly exterior. Swift’s gotta shut his mouth and breathe through his nose so none of the gore flies down his throat.
Two screaming voices fill the air.
The burrower and the pilot.
Swift rotates the saw up and around the burrower’s gut. Like he’s chopping down a tree. Something he hasn’t done as site manager in years. But it’s all coming back to him now.
He glides the blade around it. Dodges one pincer. Another impales his right bicep. Cuts right through his heavy jacket. Plants itself in his muscle.
He thinks, No. No. Fuck you. And buries the gnashing teeth of the saw to the Stihl’s hilt.
He lets it chew there for a moment before tearing the machine back out.
Blood and guts slough from the creature.
The burrower unleashes one final growl. Slumps forward. Dead.
The pilot falls with it, knocking its disc head hard against the ground.
Swift drops to his knees. The chainsaw stops with a few throaty chugs. Outta gas. He sits back on his ass. Stares at the pincer that’s speared his arm. He grabs it, weak. Tries to remove it and can’t. Whitmore and Gordy get on their haunches near him. They pull at the alien weapon. Swift winces and strains in another direction.
With a flood of curses and a splash of blood, the pincer pops free.
Fiske hobbles toward them with a small medical kit and gauze to seal Swift’s wound.
“Any time now,” Swift says.
Fiske smirks.
Swift pulls his arm free of his jacket.
The damage is ugly. Ruptured skin. Flayed flesh. Muscle shredded.
Doc hands Swift one of the bottles of whiskey.
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